The orange furnace peeks over the dune once again
above this land composed of but drought and sand.
Where no one about can be deemed a friend,
where the whole world is sere desiccated and bland
and red blood tints these shifting sands.

Sweat runs and drips from my brow and red nose
replacing night's cold and unrelenting shivvers.
Now sweat stains spread out on dusty camp clothes
while eyes grow tired of wavering heat shimmers.
and red blood tints these shifting sands.

A Poem Inspired by Jane's "Whispering Wind."

As along the shore I wander,
by the sea at even tide.
I perceive a lovely lady
walking softly by my side.

Is this not her white veil flowing
covering that gentle face?
I see her in the settling mist—
faintly glowing, full of grace.

But, she is a vague illusion
projected by the straying beam
of the lighthouse's Fresnel lens—
a figment of an idle dream.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only moments and he will be here,
must collect my thoughts.
Legs weak, can't stand;
empty feeling in stomach,
knots in kidneys.
Breast heaving,
must take slow breaths.
Heart aflutter,
such pain!
But oh what joy,
he is here...
I will soon see his face.
What was that?
The door?
He is here.
Dear God in heaven give me strength!
He hasn't changed.
He has not changed!
Still my Frederick,
but no.
Not my Frederick!
What's that?
Oh, a chair,

This secret language of flowers,
this hidden vocabulary;
the colour that a word empowers,
to paint a stem from you to me.

If, by artful pollination,
floriography can flow,
communing in that old notation,
parlance then, will let me know.

In nursing this covert oration,
the yellow rose should slowly show;
or, bloom blackened by dark negation,
the last and lonely rose might grow.

It’s Tuesday and I gotta mount that colt.
The groundwork’s not gone well~ he tends to bolt.
But I been paid and gotta get it done.
We need no more than walk…don’t wanna run.

He’s cinched up slow as always. That’s our way.
The greenhorns think he only wants to play.
They point with greenhorn fingers while they laugh
when flips his damn, fool head like some giraffe.

VOICES ALLEGRO

You used to say, "I am not
an alcoholic." But I can tell
by the looks of that glass, you were
definitely searching for something.

Something I guess you couldn't find
being a husband to mom. Something
not in the joys of fatherhood. And nothing
found, after your tenth can of beer.

Did you ever stop to think, you
should have left the search with God?
Get up out of the Thunderbird, and
get down on your knees to pray.

Two Flower Children

Two daffodils grew nearly side by side,
Divided by a margin eight inch wide.
They were in love with one another
Although they were a sister and a brother,
Therefore a union might not be allowed;
And so they kept their heads quite low and bowed.
Then came a bee, all flighty and immoral;
It transferred pollen--floral to floral,
Resulting in illicit propagation,
Which should have earned them condemnation.
But since in nature all this is permitted,
My verdict is: those lovers are acquitted.

I'm fairly content in my place,
things go mostly well for me
and there's hardly any trace
of what I potentially could be.

I keep myself behind strong walls
which keep the world from breaking in
and mutes potential when it calls.
I hear it but turn back within.

But at times I trace the bounds
by walking around long wall's girth
and think about those beckoning sounds
and what else there might be on earth.